Sequence: Late March

Swatches of sky

unroll themselves,

indigo tricks played

beyond the balcony—


I can't do this

                            so I have to try




Insert your place-names:

stickers on luggage,

postcards from halcyon days.




Bless guesses. When we compare,

we despair. Presume good will

on the part of your fellows.


Julian of Norwich, pray for me.




Ralph wishes his students

weren't so damn "linear."


How do we get the mind to leap,

to frisk and play, antic and limber

with irrepressible vim?




Hart Crane, Dylan Thomas,

enfants terribles, lushes canonised

by the crowd's acclaim,

mesmerisers mighty, knuckle and sculpt,

shove and thrust.




Tremulous rosaries.


Pious litanies

hurled at the night

in holy desperation.


Sky daubed white

with a wide-awake moon.




It opens at six o'clock,

the doughnut shop,

each honey-dipped disc

homey and consoling

as Mom's afghans, as cartoons

on Saturday mornings

forty-odd years ago.


Workers, flannelled

and affable, begin their day

with coffee taken black as

a winter's morning.




Chance stops

habit from hardening

into mortal rigor.


I know what I mean.

Custom can deaden

unless luck enlivens.




To say that the poems

I read as a youth

had "scriptural significance"

would be selling them short.

Poetry by Thomas D The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 33 times
Written on 2021-03-31 at 03:59

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Thomas these are powerful. Some are tinged with despair but redeeming; others soar. All are brilliant.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Two of these are in the realm of Lowell and Sexton and Berryman, and they are dark, and they are fine.